


The Entrance Strategy

by Stratisphyre



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 20:03:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5469272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stratisphyre/pseuds/Stratisphyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would be terribly fanciful to say that Moriarty was a spur of the moment idea born of necessity, but honestly Jamie had been planning it for quite a while before she finally put things in motion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Entrance Strategy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [three_things_sid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/three_things_sid/gifts).



> For lesoleilluna, Yuletide 2015. I got so many awesome ideas from your prompts, and it was incredibly challenging to settle for just one. Happy Yuletide! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Mild warning for casual racism and sexism on behalf of secondary characters, as well as mentions of sexual harassment. Career criminals are not very nice people. 
> 
> Thanks to JP for the beta, as always.

Her incursions into London were made possible by a geriatric mob boss and the salient knowledge that the most commonly used password of the elderly was ‘Password.’

At the time, Jamie was considered little more than an errand runner, delivering anonymous packages back and forth between powerhouses in London. Some carried money. Others guns. Still others simple pieces of paper with what she imagined to be extremely scratchy writing—far too many of the older players relied on such simplicity to conduct their daily business. Really, when it came right down to it, she was fortunate that she had the opportunity she did.

David really was a sweet old man, predilections towards punctuating his points with violent executions aside. He always seemed happy to see her; would take her hands and tell her how beautiful she was before giving her a message to deliver which inevitably resulted in someone’s headless body drifting ashore a few miles down the Thames. She was waiting for such a message one afternoon when he called her into his office.

“Jamie, sweetheart—” He spoke with a particularly strong scouser that felt rather like she was dredging her brain through a particularly rancid vindaloo, but unlike the other mugs working under him, he at least had the good manners not to sexually harass her when he was sober. “Could you take a look at me computer? It’s giving me no end of grief today.”

Jamie slipped up behind him. David was one of the last of the local bosses to really look at adapting his business to the modern age, instead of mouldering in sheaves of paper that might need to be shredded at a moment’s notice. It had been shoved to a corner of his desk a week ago, and spent most of its time dark and silent, earning an occasional glare from its owner.

“Your internet’s not connected,” she told him. “Look.” She circled the back of the desk and readjusted the Ethernet cable. “There. Should be up now.”

“You’re a gem, aren’t you?” he said absently. He poked at his keyboard a moment before grunting and pushing it away. “Impossible to figure out, isn’t it? All these programs and functions and bollocksed-up things that just make life harder, don’t they? I’m tempted to bin the entire thing.”

“I think you’ll find that early adoption will really benefit the business,” Jamie promised.

“So plum,” he said. “Here.” She returned to his side and he passed her an envelope and a few extra quid. “Take that to Rumi. And tell him I’m sick of excuses.” He clicked madly on Netscape Messenger. “Bloody stupid—”

“The threat costs extra,” Jamie told him.

“Since when?”

“Since Joseph told me he’d break my nose if I ever spoke to him in such a tone and I began putting money aside for my eventual facial reconstruction.”

David laughed congenially. “Here, then.” He shoved another few carefully-folded notes her way. “But for that I expect you to be very creative with my ‘or elses’.”

Jamie smirked. “My pleasure.”

* * *

She returned to David’s office a few weeks later, letting herself in through the side door she’d made sure to unlock before leaving. Windows 3.1 prompted her for a password, and like every other predictable relic of his age, David obliged her suspicions that he either didn’t care about security or had never considered the chance of it being so easily compromised.

She generally hated Netscape, but she battled with it a few moments in an attempt to wrangle out an email that would suit her purpose. She needed something that was meaningful enough that people would remember someone offering sound counsel, but nothing big enough that it would draw too much attention.

Finally she found one; a hit against a rather too high-profile target that was already under surveillance by Scotland Yard. The smallest chance of failure meant too much exposure for the family, and David would surely agree.

She tapped out a brief reply that reflected David’s brand of misspellings and syntax.

‘moriarty seys no & i trust em’

She smiled and hit ‘send.’ Over the next few months, she’d have David send out few emails that mentioned Moriarty. Enough to make the name stick, but not to the point where people would ask him about it. She needed Moriarty to be cemented in place as a reliable voice of wisdom, but not considered overbearing. It was a delicate balance.

* * *

Joseph was an insignificant bully of a man. Tall, and with the sort of smug entitlement that came hand-in-hand with those who had inherited their position instead of working for it. Joseph’s grandfather had been instrumental in driving the Vernengo Family out of Barking, and Joseph often leaned on the accomplishment as though he himself had driven the screwdriver into Silvio Vernengo’s left eyesocket.

Unlike David, Joseph was tight-lipped about his business, and his sexual harassment was less casual and more threatening.

Jamie was not overly fond of Joseph.

When he walked into the room, Joseph noted and dismissed her as incidental and focused the whole of his attention on the three well-muscled men he had summoned to heel.

“Some slit-eyed fuck down on St. Anne’s is smuggling fags in without paying trailers. What are we going to do about it?”

Jamie pressed her lips together. A petty bully; Joseph never failed to live up to her expectations.

“Ask him ‘bout it?” one of his thugs suggested.

“Oh? It’s our job now to introduce ourselves? I’m Joseph Fucking Kaatz. They should know who I am and be prepared to offer the proper respect.” He slammed his fist on the table—certainly not hard enough to injure himself, or even bruise his uncalloused, untested knuckles. A punctuation point, only. “Anyone else?”

“Let’s go fuck him up,” the same thug said, eyes burning with embarrassed rage.

“That,” Joseph snarled, “is the first smart thing you’ve ever said.”

They all seemed prepared to jump in, and Jamie had to resist the urge to role her eyes. “Mr. Kaatz,” she interrupted, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “I have a message for you from Moriarty that seems relevant.”

Joseph snorted. “The fuck do I care about whatever he has to say?” He smiled meanly. “I’m surprised his mouth came off David’s cock long enough to say anything.” His men laughed gamely, though they seemed suddenly uneasy. Moriarty had made an impression, apparently.

“Moriarty discovered that your ‘slit-eyed fuck’ is connected to the Gao Family,” Jamie said, “And suggests that cigarettes is the tip of the iceberg. A foray, to check your reactions. Rough him up a bit, if you must, but if you send him back in pieces you can expect similar recompense.”

Joseph scowled and stalked the length of the room towards her. Jamie silently held her ground, quiet and waiting, until he was hovering close enough for her to feel the heat of his body, and half-taste the nicotine on his breath.

“And just how does Moriarty know this?” he demanded.

A single swipe of her hand, razor concealed in her palm, and he would go down. Ten seconds to draw the gun from his belt if she used the momentum of his falling body to unholster it. Five to discharge once—the bloke closest to her, obviously. Ten for the other two. Then a calm exit from the room.

But for the same reason she couldn’t let the Gao Family take his testicles for a trophy, she couldn’t justify killing him outside of a direct threat to her person.

“I hear Moriarty has contacts in Hong Kong,” she replied calmly. “They provide the intelligence.”

“His reach seems to extend quite a ways,” Joseph snarled.

“I wouldn’t know.”

He glared at her, but stepped back. “All of you get ready,” he sniffed. “We’re going to go introduce ourselves.”

Jamie waited silently as they gathered themselves. If they heeded her, all the better. If not, she’d have to recalibrate slightly. Should that be the case, hopefully whoever took over from Joseph would have more common sense.

* * *

She received the call less than an hour later, as she contemplated a Gentileschi she’d recently acquired from the backroom at Sotheby’s. It rang on one of her throwaway phones, and—as expected—came with an 852 area code.

She answered in Mandarin. “Yes?”

“There are four men in our London warehouse looking to make trouble,” her contact told her. “They were subdued. Orders?”

She tapped the phone against her lower lip. She’d have to deal with Joseph eventually, of course. And it would be harder to come into London in a time of stability. To naturally step in. But while chaos had its own advantages, it wasn’t the right time.

“Three of them are hired muscle, yes?” Her contact answered in the affirmative. “Kill two of them. Violently. Teach the others a severe lesson about crossing us. Release them both in forty-eight hours, and make sure they’re aware that this is a sign of our mercy. And tell them…” She paused. “Tell them Moriarty negotiated their release.”

“As you say.”

She hung up and, smiling, took a brush to the blank canvas she’d set up next to the Gentileschi, finally inspired.

* * *

“Jamie, you hear anything from Craig up in Brummagem?” David asked, peering at a note in his hand.

“Eavesdropping is a bad habit,” Jamie replied.

“Let me rephrase: you’ve your ear to the ground, ain’t you?”

“I try to keep abreast of the goings on around me.”

“Beautiful. You heard of this Morty bloke?” For a second, she feared her heart would beat out of her chest, but eased the muscles of her face into neutrality. “Rumi says something about him.” He waved a slip of paper at her.

“I’ve heard Moriarty consulted with Angela and Jacobi,” she said. “Called in a few favours to keep Joseph from being filleted by the Gao Family. Moriarty seems to have broad reach.”

“Brilliant, isn’t it? An outsider telling us all how to do our jobs.” David crumpled the paper and threw it out. “You’ll tell me if he starts sticking his nose into our business? I don’t trust easy, do I?”

That was an understatement. “I will do.”

* * *

Eventually, Moriarty had to become more than an anonymous voice coaching activity from the sideline. People of David’s age where men of action, and while offering wise counsel would certainly be a mark in Moriarty’s favour, it wouldn’t cement Moriarty as much more than an outsider with an unqualified opinion if nothing ever came of it.

“This again,” David said, glaring at a hastily scribbled note she’d passed him upon his arrival at the warehouse that morning. Fitting that the first time she'd brought Moriarty up was coming back full circle, with some insignificant little troll offering Queen's Evidence. “Fucking cunny can’t keep his mouth shut.” He waved at one of his lackeys—someone actually embedded in the hierarchy, as opposed to Jamie’s somewhat more aloof part in keeping business running smoothly. “Find someone to deal this arsehole.”

“He’s still being watched by Scotland Yard, sir,” aforementioned lackey said apologetically. “No one can get to him.”

“I thought Joseph said Moriarty was going to take care of it,” Jamie said.

David’s face screwed up into a grimace. “Joseph needs to clear those decisions with me.”

“I think he wants to impress you,” she confided.

“Nipping at me heels, aren’t we?” he muttered. “All of them. Waiting for me to die so they can take a bite of my pie.” He tipped back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “You think this Morty can do it?”

Jamie blinked. “I’ve heard Moriarty is very good.” Exceptional, she wanted to say. But then, she’d never been the self-aggrandizing type.

“He gets once chance,” David muttered. He picked up the phone to call Joseph. “And just the one.” Jamie relaxed her diaphragm from its attempts to tense; this was the moment where things could fall apart. She’d accounted for David’s manner of speech and anticipated how the conversation would go—it wasn’t the first time she’d been present for conversations between the two of them. But people were unfortunately unpredictable, and she couldn’t factor in the minutiae of every conversation.

Joseph picked up on the second ring.

“Paederson, is it?” David snapped. “Spoke to the coppers again?” Joseph had been the one to send the message, and thus replied in the affirmative. “The plan is to send in Morty to deal with it?” There was a lengthy pause and Jamie threaded her hands together behind her back, feigning the casual attention that tip-toed towards the line of boredom without conveying disrespect. “He saved your arse in November, didn’t he?” He caught Jamie’s eyes and winked. “Not what I heard. Heard it would’ve been a right cock up if he hadn’t stepped in, wouldn’t it be?” Jamie fought the urge to smirk, though not altogether too hard; if David believed it to be an inside joke, who was she to deny him? “He’ll take care of it, then?”

The most delightful thing about scousers, Jamie thought as he waved her away with a quid for her trouble, was how difficult it could be to differentiate between a rhetorical and legitimate question. Especially in David’s case, when every sentence seemed to be punctuated with a question mark that rarely required reply.

* * *

Rupert Paederson kept to himself in a small flat across the street from the local constabulary. He woke every morning at half-six, ate a presumably simple breakfast cobbled together from the carefully-vetted grocer’s delivery he received every Wednesday evening, and then made his way to work down the street at a dry cleaner. This had been his routine for the past six months; before then he had been fixing numbers for David, Joseph and a few other notable names in London’s criminal community. The cleaner was staffed by undercover officers, his neighbours were all distinguished members of the force and there was less than a ten minute window to get to him from when he left his front door and when he arrived at work.

Regardless of what David claimed, he must’ve known a great deal more than just who owed David money, if there was that much scrutiny. That much protection.

Jamie took a seat at an outdoor table at a small café across the street from the cleaner, sipped a sub-par cuppa, nibbled at a dry scone, and considered her options. Killing him on the walk to work was the most obvious way to go about things, which meant that the police had probably thoroughly accounted for every possibility. That left the obvious ones, of course, though she generally hated killing in public. Too many factors to account for, not the least of which being the potential for observation.

She’d managed to get her hands on the personnel files of the men and women working out of the precinct; for the most part a collective of professionals who fit the typical profile of the London constabulary. No one of particular note, though one man in particular seemed to be contributing more than his fair share of case-related brilliance of late. Lestrade. He hadn’t done much to distinguish himself in the academy, or the last five years of his career, but he was someone to watch for, obviously, if he continued on his recent spate of unlikely successes. It merited observation.

Jamie left an average-sized tip tucked under her cup and stood. Perhaps such observation could be done firsthand.

* * *

The copper knocked on his door about half-eight; a striking bird, if not for the uniform.

“Mr. Paederson?” She glanced over his shoulder, gaze flitting between the windows. “We received a call about a disturbance about ten minute ago.”

Rupert frowned. “No disturbance here.” His heart gave a weak shudder, suddenly panicky thoughts about the Thames’ collection of headless corpses, thoughtfully donated by David and his people. “What did they say?”

“Some yelling, the sound of breaking dishes.” He stepped backwards to allow her in. “Have you had any company over, Mr. Paederson?”

“’f course not. You lot told me no visitors.” He bolted the door behind her, thoughtlessly yanking the chain into place.

“None of the female persuasion? Or expecting anyone?” she continued. She crossed the flat to inspect the windows, curiously looking towards the station before lowering the blinds.

“No. Do you think they’re after me?”

“I would say that’s a certainty.” She waved him over. “Come and look at this.”

His heart hammering hard in his chest, he half-jogged across the room to get to where she was hovering. It was the baldest corner of his apartment – no decorations, nothing. The bland newness of the place had grated on him every day, but he’d never thought there was anything inherently dangerous about—

Rupert’s entire body seized at the sharp pricking on his neck.

“Just fall into it,” the bird—not a copper, surely—recommended. His body slumped against hers, and she stepped away to let him topple to the ground. Ice began creeping through his veins, starting at his fingers, moving quicker and quicker as he tried to gasp out a call for help. His eyes flew to the panic button on his kitchen phone, but when he tried to move his limbs were suddenly unmovable, as though they’d turned to stone. “It will make the rest of this much more pleasant for you.”

“D… D… D…” His lips couldn’t move, his tongue impossibly heavy.

“David, yes. Sends his regards.” She eased down to her knee beside him. “Unfortunately, for this to work, you’ll miss your place alongside the others in the Thames. Though I think we can find a suitable alternative, don’t you?” She stood and crossed to the kitchen. He traced her movements with his gaze as best he could without moving his head. He heard her rustling through the knife drawer, and the terrifying sound of metal scraping against metal.

* * *

“Morty did a good job, dint he?” David asked, most of his attention focused on picking his nails with a pocketknife.

“That’s what I hear,” Jamie said noncommittally.

David worked free a particularly nasty-looking hangnail and then glanced up at her. “Bloke like that, very useful in our business. Resourceful. More than my lot of sprogs and bastards, anyway. Someone like that, could rightfully take over the reins of the business, couldn't he? There’s an empire in it for Morty, if Morty gets a few good people on his side.”

“Careful, sir. There are quite a number of sprogs and bastards who wouldn’t like to hear it.”

He snorted. “Suppose not.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crinkled piece of paper. “Here.” As Jamie reached for it, hard fingers closed around her wrist. Her heart began flitting hummingbird-quick in her veins, and she subtly moved her hand towards the concealed razor in her belt buckle. “This one is crazy, Jamie. You make sure Morty knows that going in. If Morty wins him over, there’ll never be more loyal a dog, but the winning is the thing.” Their eyes met, and in David’s eyes was a surety and respect that Jamie had only ever seen when he was speaking to his peers. Jamie felt a wash of… what? Something like relief, but not quite.

He finally released her and sat back in his seat. Jamie glanced at the crumpled paper in her hand.

“Sebastian Moran,” she read quietly.

“Mmm.” David rocked a few times in his chair. “Something will have to be done about Joseph, too. Unless Morty wants the Jews breathing down her neck.”

“I’m sure Morty has a plan for that already,” Jamie said. A particularly satisfying one, at that.

David sniffed in amusement. “I’m sure.” He straightened. “Won’t need you for the rest of the week, Jamie. Go make some friends.”

“I will, David.” With a small smile, Jamie made her way out of his office.

* * *

That evening, soaking in her bath with a glass of respectably dry merlot close at hand, Jamie found herself skimming the evening headlines, flipping between pages on her phone.

 _Scotland Yard Uncovers Mystery of Locked Room_. She scrolled down, quirking an eyebrow. _“It stands to reason,” the consulting detective claims, “considering the absence of any evidence of forced entry and that the door was locked from within, the murderer must have been in the flat when the police first responded. And as Scotland Yard is not wholly comprised of idiots, they presumably would have been found on scene. However, as no such person was apprehended, it stands to reason that the murderer was not only dressed as a member of Scotland Yard, but was also the one to call and report the murder in the first place.”_

How interesting.

The next morning, Jamie arranged for Irene Adler to graduate from the UCLA/Getty Program in Archaeological and Ethnographic Conservation.


End file.
